the truth is:

i am tired of your
saturated silhouette
cast from
long island to davie

a tattooed sigh
sits on our conversations,
an anchored cow
awaiting the storm

      the way i miss february
      is bovine and
            wild

under cloud cover,
we could scrape the moon
for something that shines,

            we could dig into cool earth &
            resurrect what
            once was

salvage me
from the plate of eggs
gone cold
at the breakfast table

salvage me
from the despondent
amtrak station
loudspeaker

salvage me
from your paranoid
fog,
the threat of
wasted time
like blood between
your teeth

please address me
as though you
don’t know my
name
so i am not
the only one
with hesitation
in my mouth



“There are never really any fireworks,” she says, with the delicate vulgarity of hotel shower drains, steam hot against poor watercolor art



oh wait

      I forgot to tell you about
      her Baltimore apartment in February-

out the floor-to-ceiling window

the sky was thick with rose smog and powerlines

it was dusk and


you weren’t there



we leave each other
to drip-dry in florida,
with concrete headaches,
thunderstorm hands,
heat lightning
caught in our throats

summer was a cigar box
i will keep with resilience:
failed nudes,
turpentine and tears-

in order to compensate
for the skin i will not send you:

thighs-
cookie dough
unchipped

lips-
sutured with words
like shaved aluminum.
(still learning to speak
with words
like utility knives,
the way wendy taught me-
            in the pit of the night,
            we will steep in candor
            in the window light
            with mouths of marbles)

there are things
i haven’t told you:

for instance,
that bra is my favorite.
you know,
the one threaded of
gold leaf and rose mesh.
to be honest,
i was scared you wouldn’t be able to
take it off
would get embarrassed
and then i’d get embarrassed
and then we would just be
one big chlorine hairbrush knot
of embarrassment

but

you took it off
quicker than i ever have

another thing:
i am still nervous
around your best friend,
her room a cavern of
inebriated light,
blankets waterlogged with smoke.
red-eyed and hollow,
C will tell us about
sniffing speed in snowstorms.
i will briefly consider
dedicating the rest of sixteen
to adderall afternoons &
pecan pie vodka

finally:
on monday,
in sleep you wept
all fish hook fingertips
and curls
wild with morning

admit it,
there were sandstorms
in your breath
abrading our cheeks
raw.

i will kiss you with
teeth of loose cable cars,
and we will not talk about
our bruised peach hearts
or the salt remaining
at the bottom of goodbye.


Charlotte Foreman an aspiring poet and high school student in South Florida. She has previously been published in Metazen, Canvas Literary Journal, The Olivetree Review, and Crashtest Magazine.